Page 10 of Colt (The Bull Riders #2)

I look up, and she’s got her gaze fixed on the TV, her face in profile.

She’s beautiful. Her nose reminds me of a ski slope, sweet freckles sprinkled across it, all around her cheeks.

She used to hate them when she was little, and now I’ve seen girls paint freckles on their faces because they’re so trendy. It’s funny how that stuff happens.

She’s got that striking red hair. Copper mixed with deep, russet tones. Her hair isn’t really curly. It isn’t really straight. It’s a mix of the two, and often does its own thing. She keeps it in a messy bun a lot of the time, which, right now, she has it down, tumbling over her shoulders.

If I think about pulling her hair now, it has a whole different undertone.

Oh. Hell. No. No. I’m not going there.

“This is great,” I say, because interrupting my thoughts seems like a good move at this point.

“You were just in a hostage situation with hospital food for weeks.”

I snort. “Right. That is true. But this is still good.”

“Thank you. My left wrist really got a workout opening that jar.”

My brain stalls out, trying to make a joke about the last time my left wrist got a workout, though given that I was just reflecting on the fact I haven’t had a hard-on in weeks, there’s not much to say. And anyway, I shouldn’t say it in front of her. There was something…

There was something when I made that joke about the sex tape. Then she started talking about pickup trucks and penises.

Well, she didn’t actually say the word.

She turned bright red, though. And the trouble is, it’s not like harassing her when she was young.

I used to get a kick out of her face turning red because I knew she was annoyed at me.

Now it makes me think of other things. Because she’s not a kid, she doesn’t look like a kid.

She’s a woman. And when her cheeks turned pink, I think of…

God damn. I wonder if I can actually call one of the women that I normally hook up with and see if she wants to help me with one of those erections. Because if my brain is going there, that means I’m hard up. Even if my physical body hasn’t fully realized it.

This is Allison. My stepsister.

Beehives. Pond sludge. Stepsister.

Getting gutted by a bull.

There. One of those ought to do it.

Of course, if I call one of those women, they’re going to look at me with pity in their eyes rather than lust.

Damn. That does it. Turned off. No. I don’t want to be pitied. That is not who I am. I’m Colt Campbell, and I’ve always gone after what I wanted. I’ve always been an object of admiration. Pity? No. Never.

“Do you have any grocery delivery apps on your phone?”

It’s such a banal question in contrast with what I was thinking.

“No?”

“How do you survive?”

“Half the year on the road, and half the year subsisting like a basement possum scrounging around for whatever I can find, going out to the bar, going out to the other bar, going out to Mustard Seed…”

“Well, I’m going to make a grocery order for you. I’ll bring everything over tomorrow and I’ll put it away.”

“That sounds perilously close to you being my housekeeper.”

“I’m not. I have a job. And I’m going to school. So, I’m a little bit too busy to be your housekeeper, but I can keep you alive.”

“I can place my own grocery order; you just have to tell me what service I want.”

“And you’re going to put everything away?”

I don’t like that. Because putting groceries away is nothing, but right now it sounds like so much work. Right now, it sounds like something I would really struggle to do, and it just seems so basic.

“How about this, I’ll put a grocery order to my house, I’ll have some things for you, I’ll put it away, and I’ll make you dinner again tomorrow night.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Yeah, but you’re not going to like much of anything right now.”

That comment kills what I was going to say next.

It outright dies on my tongue. Because she’s right.

I don’t like any of this. So yeah, I’m not going to like her coming over and fixing dinner.

I’m not going to like her doing food deliveries, her basically taking care of me.

But also, it’s probably not smart of me to waste the energy that I have on small things. Maybe.

Not that I’m sure what I have that energy for.

She stays to watch the game, but we don’t do much talking. And then, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it,” she says.

“Thanks,” I say. This is the millionth time I’ve had to thank her sincerely in a way too short an amount of time. But I’m reminded yet again that I’m not going to like anything right now.

“It’s Dallas. And Sarah.” She jerks the door open, and the enthusiastic sounds of greetings happen behind my head. I could turn, but I’m feeling tired. My body is starting to ache. I’m an old man.

That thought gives me enough impetus to turn my head. “Hey,” I say.

“Oh, Colt.” Sarah is looking at me like I’m a sad baby chicken.

That is the exact look I didn’t want to see on the face of a woman I wanted to hook up with.

I don’t want to hook up with Sarah. I didn’t want to hook up with Sarah because when I met her, I thought she was pretty and interesting, and I’m the kind of person who gets along well with women even after we’ve slept together.

But obviously that wasn’t to be. Since she and Dallas were soulmates from way back. I didn’t know that when I was hitting on her.

And we never did sleep together, so her pity shouldn’t hurt. But it does.

“I’m fine,” I say, which is not true. I’m not fine.

“I’m glad you’re home,” says Dallas, stuffing his hands in his pockets.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“This is why I’m glad you quit,” Sarah says, grabbing Dallas by the arm.

“That’s insensitive,” I say. “To those of us who didn’t quit and got injured.”

She looks stricken. “Sorry.”

“I’m kidding.”

She still looks sorry she said it. And you know, I’m kind of here for that. Is it demonstrably different than pity? Am I being ridiculous? I feel like I have the right.

“Come in,” Allison says. “Sit down.”

“Yeah. Come in. Sit down. It’s almost like it’s your house.”

“It’s not. But you can’t get up,” she says.

“I can get up.”

“So,” Dallas says, ignoring my conversation with Allison. “What’s the prognosis?”

“Oh. I’ll be back to normal in a few months.”

I can feel Allison staring at me. That’s not what anyone said. But I don’t want to get into what was said. I don’t like it. It’s uncertain, and all it’s going to get me is more questions, more sad eyes. Offers of help, all kinds of things, I just don’t want to deal with.

“So, back to it next year?”

I think of the way that I was ground into the arena dirt, the feeling of the horn tearing through my body.

“Yeah. I’m not going to be done until I win.

And fucking Maverick has a pretty clear field without you or me.

I’m almost tempted to tell you to go back.

Though I know that would be an unpopular decision. ”

Sarah looks murderous. “It would be a widow-making decision. I’m too young to be a widow.”

“You’re not married,” I say.

“Yeah. But we will be,” Dallas says, smiling at her.

I like that my friend is in love. It’s a good thing.

It also makes me feel like I’m on the outside of something that I can’t understand, which feels unfair, really.

Dallas spent the first fifteen years of his life in foster care.

He didn’t end up in a conventional family until he was a teenager, but somehow he’s in a great relationship.

Maybe because he knew her back then. Because she was always there.

I don’t know. I can’t claim expertise on this or anything else. Not as far as relationships go, anyway.

They stay for a while and shoot the breeze, and I’m reluctant to show how exhausted I’m getting, but sitting up, talking, engaging, while totally off of pain meds is fatiguing in a way I didn’t fully account for.

And it’s Allison who notices.

“You should probably get some rest,” she says.

“I’m fine,” I say. Knowing full well that it’s a lie.

“Oh yeah,” Dallas says. “It’s good to see you… Out of the hospital.”

“It’s good to be out of the hospital.”

Dallas claps my shoulder, and Sarah does the same, before the two of them leave.

I decide to turn some of my irritation onto Allison, and I know it’s not fair. Even as the words exit my mouth, I know it’s not fair. I decide to do it anyway.

“I don’t need you to babysit me.”

“You don’t? Because you're over-exhausting yourself and you just lied to your best friend.”

“No, I didn’t,” I say. Which is dumb, because she was there, and she knows full well that I lied.

“You really believe that you’re going to be back at it in a few months?”

I stare at the back wall. “That’s not anything that I need to think about right now.”

“I think it would be good if you did. I think it’s probably smart for you to try and figure out what things might look like in six months.”

“No, thank you. You know what, I am tired, and I think you should go home.”

She lowers her brows, her forehead creasing. “Don’t do this. Don’t be mean to me just because I know what’s going on with you.”

“You know what’s going on with me? That’s kind of a trick. Considering I don’t know what’s going on with me.”

“Whatever. Good night.” She moves over to my TV tray, scoots out of my way, and takes my plate.

“I don’t need you to do that.”

Her eyes meet mine, a stubborn expression on her face, and she slams the plate back down on the tray. “Okay. Enjoy cleanup. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow about groceries.”

I regret everything that’s come out of my mouth since Dallas and Sarah walked out the door, but I don’t quite know what to do with it.

I don’t know how to course correct, because it would mean backing down, apologizing. It would mean accessing the kind of sincerity that feels like it might scrape me raw now.

So I don’t say anything. I just watch her collect her things and storm out of the house. And then I’m left alone. With my thoughts. With my memories. With everything that terrifies me.

And I wish I had done things differently.